And I had.
That night, he danced with me, and again after that. Every time another lady approached, he turned her away. The guests whispered scandal, but no one dared question a Duke.
When the final waltz began, it was his hand that found mine. His eyes had been steady, unafraid of the gossip. That was the night I stopped being invisible.
We met often after that—at dinners, at balls, during quiet rides through Hyde Park at dawn. He was always kind. Always measured. And though he never said the words, I believed there might one day be something more.
I had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Sylum.
Then, one morning, the papers announced his engagement to Lady Elizabeth Whitcombe.
Without a letter, without explanation, he was gone.
I learned then that kindness, when withdrawn, wounds more deeply than cruelty ever could.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, the memory leaving an ache sharper than the autumn wind. Now here I was again, chasing the shadow of that same man through a garden heavy with a darkness I could never escape.
I laughed softly, bitterly, at my own folly. “You’re a fool, Lucy,” I whispered. “A desperate, lovesick fool.”
The night answered with silence.
I tilted my head back, staring up at the cold gleam of the moon through the clouds. My head was spinning, my body too heavy, my thoughts sinking beneath the warmth of too much champagne.
And then footsteps, soft and deliberate, came closer.
I straightened, pulse leaping, breath shallow.
A dark silhouette emerged from the path beyond the roses. The light from the terrace caught his black mask, glinting faintly.
He had found me.
I stood too quickly. The ground tilted faintly beneath me, the stone path rippling like water. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was something darker, something that pulsed in my veins now instead of blood.
My heart and far too much champagne refused to let me lie to myself any longer.
He wasn’t really there. He couldn’t be there. And yet in my mind, he was.
“Sylum?” The name slipped from my lips, trembling and breaking.
The man didn’t answer at first as he stepped closer, neither denying or acknowledging the name.
“Perhaps,” he finally relented, dark eyes piercing my very soul.
I moved toward him before my legs could protest. Each step was its own betrayal. The grass was cold against my slippers, dampness seeping through the silk. My fingers trembled as I reached up, brushing the edge of his mask, my hand cupping his cheek, half-afraid he would vanish like a mirage.
“You’re not real,” I breathed, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
His hand rose slowly, brushing against mine. His touch was warm, achingly familiar. Then, with exquisite deliberation, he removed his mask.
I gasped, the sound tearing from my throat.
Sylum stood before me.
Older, perhaps. Sharper at the edges. But it was him. Every line of his face carved into my memory, now made flesh beneath the moonlight. He was justas beautiful as I remembered.
My knees nearly gave out. I wanted to run. I wanted to fall into him. I wanted, above all, to understand how the ghost of my past could stand so vividly before me.
“Lucy,” he murmured at last, his voice low, rough, and far too real.
